I wonder why you jest. You say you’re the sun, you’re the stars – you’re everyone. That is everything but you.
This will not do. This
Will not do!
You are no rite.
You are the blue cowherd.
You are no eleven-fat-brahmins chanting grave by the fires.
You are what little Malati desires.

This teasing is grown unkind.
And what was a game,
It was playful once, I concede,
The hands were smoother
And the face unlined
Is now grown worldly
death wise.
Your riddles have outgrown their
                                   wit,
Krsna, old friend,
Comfort me now with plain speech,
In plain sight.
Man-to-man.
       If you don't mind.

next: rains